Carnival Mirror: Errata Corrige ('90-s Arc)
by Bronsky Ellia
Summary: The series of parralel fics. Two time-travels, pretty much mirroring each other: sixteen year-old Tom Riddle accidentally appears in Harry Potter's timeline, during Harry's summer after 5th year; and Harry of same timeline falls through to the 1940-s, when future Dark Lord is still in his sixth year at Hogwarts. So we have two 'sets' of Tomarry in two different timelines.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** "Errata Corrige" means "Correction of Errors" in Latin.

Very loosely inspired by Abandom-Reclaim dilogy by Batsutousai and Fate's Favorite by The Fictionist, as well several other works (both by these authors, and others as well), in terms of OOC-ness or lack thereof.  
Also my stories are often inspired by the ideas of my readers. Thank you, everyone.  
In terms of canon, in this story the flow of events had changed from the end of Harry's fifth year (from OoP onwards), but some facts remain in canon, despite that. Thanks goes to prismaticmem for their comment about soul shard in Harry. Yeah, that was spoiler :-p

 _Ex parvis saepe magnarum rerum momenta pendent_

 _(The course of great events often depends on the smallest of things)_

 _Titus Livius_

Harry Potter couldn't believe it. After everything that happened about a month ago—the disaster at the Department of Mysteries, Sirius going through that Veil after being hit by Bellatrix' curse, all his friends (and Dumbledore!) seemingly turning on him, refusing to even send a small note, if not their usual foliant-ish letters —

And now this.

Harry was going to spend the rest of his summer (and his bloody birthday, on that matter!) in the place, which was debatedly almost as bad as the Dursley's. Grimmauld Place.

What was even more disastrous—he was bunking with the enemy. No, not just some enemy, not Malfoy, or any of the other Slitherins, not even some nameless lesser Death Eater-turned-spy, but The Ultimate Enemy of one Harry Potter. Namely, Tom Riddle.

The only small consolation for Harry in this matter was that _this_ Riddle was yet to _become_ a psychopathic mass-murderer with a face of a snake and without an ounce of humanity left, as _this_ Riddle was still a _teenager_ of sixteen.

As it was still too early in the morning (four, for Merlin's sake! Shouldn't be the Headmaster sleeping at this time, at least, due to his age?!) Harry was yet to comprehend the sheer possibility of such a long (or should it be "old"?) time travel. All Harry needed to know at this ungodly hour, by the words of Dumbledore, was that such _living arrangements_ were only _temporary_ , for the time being, while the Headmaster, together with several of the more trustworthy and "brainy" members of the Order of the Phoenix, is going through the books to restore the normal order of things. Preferably, with Riddle gone—to his own time, or maybe as in "gone for good"— as him staying could and would mess with the law of the Universe, or some such rubbish. Four a.m. was still to early to even hold your eyes open, needless to say, that brain functioning and grasping the complexity of time-travel disorders was out of the question.

Harry tried to suppress a yawn, only to be encouraged by the Headmaster's own, politely covered by wrinkled hand. Old man put his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

"Harry, my boy, I sincerely apologize for dragging you out of bed at this hour, but we still—ahh", another huge yawn. "We still have things to discuss, and of utmost importance, at that, so, please, bear with me for some more here."

Harry sleepily nodded, not trusting himself to answer verbally without yawning. While he himself was somewhat used to the nights without much sleep due to almost constant nightmares, Harry sympathized with the old Professor's tiredness enough to not encourage yet another yawn (and possible dislocation of old man's jaw in the process).

"As you, my boy, should well know by now, _the_ Tom Riddle, whom we have here, Tom Riddle of _sixteen_ , is not a mere teenager, even at this age. He is already unstable in his mind and heart, already inclined towards cruelty and evil behavior. I shall refrain from labeling him as psychopath for now, but remember, this is _Tom Riddle_ we're talking about. It could be that he already possesses the—shall we say—qualities, which made Voldemort, as we know him in our own timeline.

"Therefore, for the purposes of, at least, restraining him from wandering off in that direction once again, and in hopes of—shall we say—encouraging his brighter side and—how to put it—curing his heart, we need to perform the special spell—"

"Now, Professor? Couldn't it wait till the morning at least? I mean, um, normal morning. Like, at ten o'clock or something like it?" Harry bewildered.

"Alas, these measures are required for your safety immediately. And I mean not only your safety, Harry, but Tom' safety, as well. Unfortunately, such huge magical burst as occurred this night during Tom Riddle's arrival could not go unnoticed by all parties concerned—meaning the Order, the Ministry, and, to our dismay, Voldemort cohorts. You should understand how dire the situation would become, shall Voldemort get his hands on a person such as his younger self. We will have _two_ Voldemorts to deal with, and one of them will be more sane—and, dare I say, more dangerous—to deal, while the other will have all means and ends to support the former, as well as the desire to destroy the peace of the Wizarding World and half, if not the most, of it's population. In such a scenario not only Magical people, but Muggles as well will suffer greatly, as Tom of young has no love for those, who nearly destroyed the place he was raised at, as well as half of the world, during World War, nor he considers that said place his home, and, I am afraid, he never had."

Harry was biting his tongue for the comment, which set Dumbledore off so much, and was grimly scowling and nodding in understanding and agreement by the end of Headmaster's tirade. He has already been up, so what did additional five-ten minutes matter?

"Okay, Professor, that's alright. I—um—I will perform the spell, if you'd like so—"

"Oh, no, no, ma'boy, it's not you who will be casting a spell, you're still underage, for one, and also, it's too complex and needs too much power—"

Harry was positively shocked out of his sleepiness—was the Headmaster rambling?! Stuttering, like he was teenager himself?!

"Erm— Headmaster, that's okay! I wasn't— It's alright! I mean, I couldn't have possibly _known_ that this spell is so complex and power-consuming. As to underage, I thought here, _at this place_ , there is enough protection, so the Ministry won't notice me doing any magic—"

"Oh, Harry, unfortunately there is new regulation around for underage magic. I was trying to prevent it from becoming law, in the first place, but, alas, I was—ah, how they say—outnumbered at the final voting. From the beginning of next month, namely in a week, the magic, performed by the persons of under eighteen years old, will be monitored by the special device, which detects the magical signature of said person. To put it simply, now you need to be older, than by the previous law, and now it is harder to cover unauthorized magic, as the device recognizes the spell-caster and records the information: when, where and which spells were used, in case that such person is underage and not in a school for wizarding education. As for the magical signature, the device is linked to the Register of Hogwarts, where all magical children are recorded, and this device gets the information on signature from the Register. Most inconvenient, I must say."

Harry was absolutely terrified of this news.

"So, Professor, say, if one goes to holidays, for Christmas, for example, or summer, and there is Death Eater attack at the time, what happens? Will they bring a child to court for defending themselves?! Back in fourth year, I was out of school, at that awful graveyard—"

"No, no, my dear boy, no law punishes for that which was committed before this law existed in the first place! You shall not be put to trial for that—"

"Headmaster, I am not that stupid!" Harry snapped. "It is just an example. If at that time this law had existed already, could this all result in a trial for me? I mean, not just me, for anyone in my place, any other boy, or girl, not The Boy Who Lived? Like Cedric, for example?" Harry winced at the memory, but he needed to ask and get the answer anyway.

Dumbledore sighed.

"I am not sure. It could depend on the circumstances. Even in Muggle courts the more complex and hard to judge are the cases where self-defense is involved. It is hard to assess where said self-defense ends and offense begins.

"In the example, which you give, the problem is that there is no clear and concrete evidence of circumstances. Provided that there is evidence or witnesses to the events, one can be excused and found not guilty, instead it being a self-defense. Otherwise they strip you of your magic, break your wand and send you out to Muggles for the rest of your life, if the evidence is not solid and the witnesses are absent or non-existent."

At the end of Dumbledore's speech Harry was white as sheet, shaken and wide-eyed. In his, albeit hypothetical, but, oh, so _real_ example, there were witnesses—Death Eaters, Voldemort himself—but who will believe a criminal, or a Dark Lord, at that matter, standing as a witness in court? Well, maybe he, being who he is—the Golden Boy and the Savior of the Light—could get away with performing underage magic while dealing with the Dark Lord with no evidence and witnesses for or against the plea of self-defense, but that was only him, Harry Potter. Any normal teenager, not Boy Wonder, just your usual neighbor wizard kid could be found guilty and stripped of his magic just for defending himself. Absolute bloody rubbish, that was! Is the bloody Ministry trying to kill or get rid of their own children?! Harry shook his head, returning his mind to the matter at hand. Right. Riddle. Riddle and safety spell.

"Headmaster, aren't you tired? Let's finish this safety thing, or whatever this is, and go to beds, okay?" Harry yawned, just for good measure.

Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

"Of course, Harry, dear, let us! But first you need to—let say—greet our guest and introduce yourself to him. I hope you understand that he does not know any Harry Potter yet, and shall not _need_ to know of your _future history_ with him—or rather Voldemort—at this time."

"What do you mean, Professor? Should I invent some pseudonym, or what?" Harry asked surprised.

"No, no, that could be— ah— counterproductive, I daresay. You need him to trust you, to some extent at least, to believe you. I suggest you simply introduce yourself, but refrain to even hint on the matter of Voldemort and your confrontation with him. Let's say, you are a teenage relative of one of those helping me with time-travel problem, brought here to keep an eye on you and, simultaneously, provide company and advice on modern times for Tom. And that's all. No war is going on, no Voldemort, no other issues, related to these. Just your usual teenager on summer holidays."

"Professor, wouldn't it, too, be counterproductive, as you've said, to advice Tom on modern times? If he is going back eventually?"

"Well, it could be, on one hand, and we will need to take measures, like _Obliviate_ him before departure, for instance, or use some more complex measures, to remove the knowledge of the future from his mind. But on the other hand, it could do him good—to remember at least some things from this trip of his, if we—or, more accurately, you—succeed in swaying him on his path to become the Dark Lord, in _saving_ him from such fate."

Harry winced at the thought of _saving_ Voldemort, but despite his hate for the said man—man, and not the teen he once was—he could see reason behind Dumbledore's words. If Riddle is yet to become Dark Lord, if it is not too late, he, Harry, should do everything in his power to change that. Of course, no one knew, it could be already pointless, too late for saving, too late for _curing_ , as Dumbledore put it. But he will try nevertheless.

Harry nodded solemnly, scowling, his composure rigid, shoulders squared and body tense in anticipation of what he was going to do—provide _company_ to future murderer of his own parents, be _friendly_ with him, maybe even _laugh_ together and play pranks with him or on him, for indefinite amount of time, as nor Harry, nor even Dumbledore himself had knowledge of how to return Riddle back in his time yet, and no one knew how long it will take them to get such knowledge.

"Let's do it, Professor!"

"Ah, Harry! One more thing! I didn't explain yet, what that safety spell will do."

Harry arched a brow with suspicion. He didn't like how Dumbledore _waltzed_ around this issue—first rambling and stuttering, then distracting him with important information, which, nevertheless, could wait till more adequate morning hours, and now positively manipulating him towards empathy and compassion for his arch-enemy around Harry's tendency to save just about everyone he lay his eyes upon. If the rambling could be written off as a simple tiredness of the Headmaster, and, maybe, even distraction was not deliberate, the manipulation of Harry's heart, his feelings on the matter at hand—that was definitely suspicious, to say the least.

"What _is_ it, Professor? What it _does_?"

"This spell will _bind_ Tom to you."

"Wh-what do you mean?" Harry stuttered. "Bind? Is it not enough, that I am bound to his older version already?! It—It's— I can't— I will not—"

"Harry, Harry, calm down, please! It has absolutely no similarities to the link—bond—you have with Voldemort. Quite the opposite. I didn't say that _you_ will be bound to him. On the contrary, it is _Tom_ , who will be bound to you."

"I see no difference!" Harry argued. "How is it opposite, if in both cases we are _bound together_?"

"Harry, this spell shall not tie your minds or your souls, Merlin forbid! It shall be mere physical proximity, and on his side mostly. Meaning, Tom shall at all times be not more then ten feet apart from you. And that's it. I don't think it will be too difficult to just be in one room, or even on one floor with him. That is all. It will ensure his constant presence under same protection—be it wards on the building you preside, or a person guarding you (both of you!) inside or outside such building—and as well it will serve as an anchor for additional protective wards for you both, which we will compose and perform later today, or maybe even tomorrow."

"Okay," Harry sighed, "What shall I do? Just go meet-and-greet him and stand there, while you do the spell? And then I can go to sleep, right?"

"Exactly, my boy! Just meet him, allow me to cast a spell and you get your rest!"

Dumbledore's behavior was still somewhat suspicious. He agreed on Harry's understanding of the spell too bloody _fast_ , clapped his hands even, merrily, and his eyes, albeit tired, still have the famous twinkle in them, which didn't look very promising and reassuring for Harry. But what more could there be? And he was too bloody tired, too freaking stressed by the whole situation with sudden appearance of Riddle and by the nightmares he had for the whole past week, including this exact night, just before the Headmaster's arrival at Dursley's doorstep in the middle of the night.

In all honesty, at that moment he had been even grateful for harsh wake-up from angry Uncle Vernon, growling about "freaks" and early morning, and really glad to see the Headmaster, equally grumpy, it seemed, from lack of sleep and from some troubling issue at hand, which brought the Headmaster to Harry.

Nevertheless, Harry couldn't bring himself to care anymore—screw any suspicions, to hell with Dumbledore's twinkling eyes, he was really and truly tired. He can deal with all this later in the morning, or even after lunch (which he planned to pass in favor of sleep).

"Right. Let's get going, then, Professor! Where is _he_?"

 **A/N:** English is not my mother-tongue, but I've lived in English-speaking country for 4 years for my college degree, and, as a matter of fact, the degree I got was in journalism, and I had absolutely amasing teacher for Creative Writing. Now it's been ten years I'm back home, working as English translator; I prefer to watch and read all I can in English (meaning fanfiction, too). Recently, I've read so many English-language Tommary that became pretty sure I can do one myself. Feel free to correct if I'm wrong, I love _practical_ criticism (those, which will help me improve my writing, the text of fanfiction you're critisizing and in general be productive rather than counterproductive). That's not to say that this is "my first fanfic", cause I'm experienced fanficition writer (even more than 10 years) but most of my things are in my mother-tongue (there are one or two RPS things in English, but I'm taking a break from that fandom for now), and I'm proud of my course projects for Creative Writing and count them as original fanfics loosely inspired by something or the other.  
And it seems I'm rambling (too many sleepless nights recently) and sidetracking, so enough of that.  
And, please, leave comment, even if it's along the lines of "utter crap! don't bother with writing anymore" or, on the opposite, of "Update please!" without further words.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom Riddle was absolutely furious. He couldn't even begin to comprehend as to how he, the most brilliant student ever attending Hogwarts, it would so seem, had overlooked certain details of such a simple spell. Unbelievable! It had taken him five whole years to find out everything he could about his rightful heirloom, the notorious Chamber of Secrets, the creation of his great ancestor, Salazar Slitherin, only to find himself almost splinched in the process to tiny pieces in his attempt to go through the second set of wards, placed inside the Chamber, protecting the Library of said Slitherin, holding, as rumor had it, tomes of long gone knowledge on creation and application of the most deadly and powerful spells.

Well, good thing was—he actually hadn't splinched himself. As for bad—

What could be worse than _this_?!

Instead of simply and brutally breaching through the wards and into Slitherin' Study, Tom had _Apparated_ to the outskirts of London.

In mere moments after his apparition, he heard an unmistakeably familiar crack of another person apparating somewhere nearby, too close for Tom to be comfortable, at that matter.

While Tom himself had been trying to understand how he could possibly _Apparate_ _out_ _of Hogwarts_ , and then noting the seriously, erroneously off temperature around him—it shouldn't be so blazingly hot on Halloween, surely—stranger, who apparated about a minute ago nearby, came to him.

That was the tell-tale last straw—

Dumbledore. Annoying and always suspecting some thing or the other, his Transfiguration Professor, as usual, immediately assumed, that Tom had been up to no good, always stalking Tom from the shadows—

But there had been something really bizarre this time with the man's attire— and health, too. Or rather—age.

Dumbledore was old. Simply old. Long white beard and white hair under his utterly distasteful and disgusting (as well as absolutely normal for barmy teacher) pointy hat with some ridiculous patterns. His robes, too, were multicoloured and with even more idiotic patterns. Were it bunnies?! Tom didn't want to know.

What he did want to know, though, was—what happened to auburn-haired man in his thirties or forties, who now looked even more barmy as his childish robes clashed alarmingly with his seemingly rather old age. And what happened to Halloween' weather in London? When—?

It all became pretty clear to him at that moment. Here was the right, the most accurate question—"When".

He not simply _Apparated_ out of the castle (from where even the most powerful wizards could not _Apparate_ on the whim _)._ He _jumped through the time itself._

Dumbledore had, for a moment, seemed absolutely shocked, at the site of his most un-favorite student, but he regained his composure rather quickly and politely greeted the said student with simple "Tom" and inclination of his head.

Tom smirked smugly at him, raising a questioning brow in response.

"Professor. What happened to your _handsome_ red beard? Got tired of it?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled angrily behind his half-moon spectacles, before he once again collected himself to answer.

"Age, as I presume, you know."

"Ah, but of course." Tom's smirk broadened becoming more of an evil grin with bared teeth. "It's just with this, oh, so merry clothes, I can not possibly guess, how old should you be now?" That was too blunt for usually sly and cunning Tom, he was fishing for hints on his whereabouts (or rather "whenabouts"), but desperate times called for desperate measures, as they said.

This was much, much more than he had ever aspired to achieve from this small escapade. He could not even begin to anticipate what could transpire from this unexpected gift from the fate itself, it seemed.

Alas, Tom had managed to forget Dumbledore's suspicion towards him and Professor's animosity. Barmy coot didn't get caught in his — rather childishly set, he ought to admit—trap. Instead, Professor menacingly pointed his wand and tried for intimidation (in these robes? Really?!), _ordering_ him to come along, so that the Professor could _help_ _Mr. Riddle_ to return to his home-time, or some such nonsense. As if!

Tom, of course, tried to _slither_ away, to leave, while Dumbledore's back was turned on him. He hadn't anticipated that while he had only several minutes, Professor _lived through_ several decades (judging by his looks) and, thus, accumulated both experience and knowledge of more spells and curses, as well as more power.

Tom was definitely at disadvantage here.

Although, if he was in Dumbledore's shoes, he'd definitely stunned himself, chained and only then transported to where old man wanted to bring him.

"On the second thought—" Dumbledore abruptly stopped in his tracks, turning and casting, almost in one breath, Full-Body Bind and Mobilicorpus at Tom, who hasn't expected such surprising speed from the seemingly old man.

That had only angered Tom more, but he could not _do_ anything in his state, at least, not now. Silently fuming and sending death glares to his offender, while contemplating this ridiculous situation and planning not just escape, but revenge, too, for this humiliation, Tom was transported around London, to some strange, dark and old looking house, somewhere in the city.

Tom had been left in this humiliating state—in Full-Body Bind—in one of the rooms of that house for another couple of hours, which, of course, hasn't helped his mood. Tom couldn't hear anything and, no matter how much he tried, he hadn't been able to break free of the spell.

So when, at last, Tom had heard steps outside the locked door, he was absolutely raging mad with fury and hatred—both towards this situation (and Dumbledore, at that matter), and towards himself for such stupidity and incompetence.

The door to the room opened to reveal not only Dumbledore, but another person as well.

It was a boy with dark messy hair, round glasses, in strange and very oversized clothes—and with his wand drawn. The boy was squinting his eyes of _Avada_ green colour towards Tom and pointing the wand at him for good measure.

Tom tried to move away from this wand (and this menacing and angry look, too), but the spell, which was binding him, could not allow for it. He cringed uncomfortably inwardly, silently sending death glares to Dumbledore and this stranger. He was seeing this boy for the first time for Salazar's sake! And already the boy hated and tried to threaten him! What had Tom done to him?!

"This is _him_?" The boy asked, staring down at Tom, who was lying at the floor.

"Yes, this is Tom Riddle." Dumbledore confirmed grimly. He once again pointed the wand a Tom, but didn't released him from the spell. "Move closer to him, Harry, please. He's restrained with the spell, so there's no need to be alarmed." Professor added reassuringly, indicating the place at the floor near Tom. "Sit there, my boy."

This _Harry_ hesitantly stepped closer to Tom, scowling at him, and sat, cringing with seeming discomfort at such close proximity.

"Take him by the hand." Suggested Dumbledore, with the flick of the wand releasing Tom from binding spell.

The boy—Harry—wincing openly with disgust and with angry sparks in his eyes took Tom's hand in his own.

Before Tom could protest or ask what's going on, Dumbledore made wide gesture with his wand and muttered some spell under his breath. His wand gave a shower of multicolored sparks, which gathered into the greenish ribbon of light, going right to the entwined hands of Tom and Harry, wrapped around them, and dissolved there, leaving ghostly mark, looking like a band of transparent silk, around their wrists. In the first moment, it looked like the spell had been finished, the mark was slowly dissipating, as if dissolving into the skin on their wrists.

Harry let out a breath he was holding and tried to release Tom's hand at the same moment as Tom was also trying to free his limb from the other's firm grip. At that second the mark on their wrists once again became visible, instantly turning red in color and becoming less transparent.

Harry winced and gave a low hiss of pain. Tom merely flinched, grinding his teeth at unpleasant sensation of burning, which was emitting from the mark. The offending thing flashed bright red one more time before turning back to half-transparent greenish and dissolving into the skin of their hands again.

Dumbledore scowled in contemplation and obvious bewilderment at the mark's behavior. It was clear, that Professor hadn't expected the mark to act in such way. Nevertheless, Dumbledore sighed in obvious relief and made the gesture of dismissal, not even bothering to help with the burn on their hands.

"Tom, this is Harry, a friend of mine and son of the friend who will be helping me with the time spell. Harry will keep you company till the moment we find a way for you to return home."

"And what, pray tell, was this nasty little spell, that you've put on me?" Tom drawled with suspicion and barely contended fury in his voice. "Is it legal to subject a mere student to such a horrendous spell?"

"This is just a measure of precaution for your safety, as it will allow to expand the wards guarding Harry, him being dear to me as my own grandson, to you, also. I must advise you not to leave this house in view of said protection wards, and remain within ten feet from Harry at all times." Dumbledore explained tightly.

"What?!" Tom almost cursed, hearing that last bit.

"It is the safety measure, think nothing of it. All other discussions will be held at a later, more appropriate time, as, I presume, we should all be tired at five in the morning. I am afraid, you will need to take the second bed in the room Harry stays at, as there are no suitable bedrooms within ten feet of Harry's. The rest will be arranged in the later morning, when we've been rested.

"Harry, show Tom to the bedroom, please.

"Goodnight to you, gentlemen."

And with that Dumbledore was gone.

Tom was left with his jaw hanging, as, he anticipated, Harry would be, too. Strangely, it seemed, that the boy had already known about their living arrangements, and of the spell, too, at that matter.

"Well?—" Harry gestured towards the door, scowling. "Get going, _Tom_. It's bloody five in the morning, I want some sleep, already." Harry grumbled, scrubbing at his eyes with his right hand.

"How about you release my hand firstly, _Harry_?" drawled Tom, raising their still entwined hands for demonstration.

Harry abruptly dropped Tom's hand, as if scalded.

"Move it." Harry grumbled, pointing to the corridor behind opened door.

~*~*~*~

 **A/N:** Yeah, I don't really like Dumbles *hides behind a shield* and see him as manipulative and a bit barmy old coot. Some of the thoughts of characters are taken out of my head, I confess.  
Also I came to despise the obvious "I am going to kiss him with tongue!" he thought. (and now imagine the same expression in case of higher rating scene, hehe.) and now I try for new form of writing using indirect thoughts and sometimes indirect speech, too, as well as skipping through less significant parts in form of retelling or narration rather then in form of full-fledged scenes.  
And now I stop rambling. Just know, that your comments and reviews are always welcome!


	3. Chapter 3

Later, Tom has been lying in the bed without an ounce of sleep in his eyes, listening to the soft and even breathing of his soon to be companion sleeping peacefully near him.

It had occurred, that there was no second bed in Harry's room, only big four-poster similar to Hogwarts' ones, and Harry had just plainly refused to change rooms, with a reasoning of them being in the awful state of untidy mess, together with some nasty curses and cobwebs covering half the house, and just blatantly prohibited Tom from doing anything magical—like conjuring the second bed (not that there was free space in the room for it), or transforming the four-poster into two single beds. Of course, for that Harry also had his clear reasoning—supposedly, there was some new law in action for detection of underage magic, or other such nonsense.

As it was still five in the morning, Tom reluctantly agreed to share a bed— _for this time only—_ so that both of them will be properly rested for the cleaning of the other vacant bedroom later in the day. But he absolutely refused to share the blanket, instead generously allowing Harry to take it, as Tom himself had been used to cold nights never really understanding the greed of others over such small matters as warm blanket or extra space on the shared bed from his times at the orphanage. Not that Tom was going to _share_ that particular knowledge of himself. He simply hadn't start fighting with Harry over blanket, silently moving some more from the center of the bed, leaving almost half of "his" share of the space to Harry.

"What're you doin'?" Harry mumbled, already half asleep. "—'m not kickin' sleepin', move over here—" He opened the cocoon which he'd made from the blanket, patting the mattress suggestively.

"I am not sharing a blanket with you," Tom drawled through greeted teeth, furiously. "Just sleep already, four-eyes," he spat.

Harry sighed with obvious relief, wrapping himself up with blanket again, and the next second he was already sleeping.

Tom stared at the ceiling, thinking over the events, which had transpired in the last couple of hours. It was clear that Dumbledore had acquired some knowledge into Tom's deeds in the years passed, which made the Professor even more suspicious towards him, to the degree of him casting the advanced and obviously not too Light spell, which should clearly control Tom, not just allow for protection extension or some such rubbish. And what it was with the "ten feet" rule?! What should happen if Tom disregarded this rule? Will Dumbledore be alarmed to his disobedience?

Tom mused over the idea of "testing his boundaries" (almost literally), before deciding against it. It was too early after the completion of the spell, especially as there was clear problem with its magic, judging by Dumbledore's reaction. Later on, in couple of days, or even in a week (if Tom will still be here at that time), he will try to move outside ten-feet boundary. As for now—

Tom flinched at sudden loud sound, breaking the sleepy silence of the room. Harry, who just moments ago was sleeping peacefully in his "cocoon", now was tossing, turning and thrashing, his blanket spilling to the floor on the other side of the bed from Tom. Harry whimpered lowly in his sleep, restlessly turning his head on the pillow from one side to the other.

Tom warily eyed him, contemplating if he should wake the boy or just leave him with his demons.

Harry moaned louder, turning away from Tom, and curling into small ball on his side, trying to save some warmth left after loosing his blanket, shaking lightly in his sleep.

Tom pursed his lips annoyed, but stayed in bed. As he was not going to sleep anyway, Harry's nightmares didn't bother him in the slightest. Well, to be _honest_ , they _did_ bother him, as Tom himself had experience with such, but considering that Tom wasn't going to sleep this night, the noise and commotion emitting from his roommate did not disturbed his thoughts much.

Tom was going through his memories of what the spell Dumbledore had performed had looked like, trying to analyze it and understand what it should have been doing and what really happened. It hasn't looked like anything he had encountered before, considering that Tom was at least vaguely familiar with most of the spells from the books of Hogwarts library (even those from the Restricted Section) and those from outside it (them being from the books he acquired from his Slytherin classmates, even not so legal ones, as Slytherins were not known for sticking to the rules in this area of expertise).

Another matter, weighing on his mind, was his jump through time. He didn't understand how that was even possible, but that was not so relevant at the moment. What he could gain from it, what advantages it gave him—that was more important. How he could use it—to even more of the advantage—that thought was occupying his mind right now. If he could gain some useful knowledge—of advanced spells invented during the time he jumped over, for instance, or of events, which had transpired during this time, and which were of significance to him and his goals in the long run—it would be worth his time spent here and even worth his suffering of the irritating company of this annoying boy with his distasteful glasses and clearly hand-me-down clothes and hate-filled _worn-out_ look in his unbelievably bright and big _Avada_ green eyes—

Tom flinched again, wincing and scowling—his roommate was once again loudly _crying_ and thrashing beside him. Sighing, Tom had got up from the bed and stepped to the window, looking out of it at the already brightening sky, with pinkinsh tint coloring it, from the sun raising somewhere behind the buildings, obstructing his view.

As far as signs would go, it seemed, according to Dumbledore's view and his and Harry's clear recognition of Tom, the amount of time he jumped over could not be more than couple of decades, maybe, half a century, at most. Of course, if no one had invented some spell or potion for prolonging human's life or even for _immortality_. _That_ was certainly something Tom would be _interested_ in, if that was the case. He hummed in appreciation of the thought, pacing between the bed and the window in his musing.

Harry, who just moments ago was once again restlessly squirming in his sleep, whimpering and sniffing, abruptly calmed down hearing the sound of Tom's humming.

Tom arched an eyebrow at him. Had his humming _calmed_ the boy? Tom stepped closer and hummed some stray melody from the top of his head a little louder. Harry, who had been again beginning to stir, calmed once more.

That was _interesting_ , Tom thought. From his own experience with nightmares he had known that no simple humming or even violent shaking by the shoulders would scare the dreams away most of the time, at least for him. May be, this _Harry_ was a lighter sleeper, or something, if such easy cure was really helping him endure the night. That piece of information, even if insignificant now, could come in handy at a later time, Tom decided.

Shrugging, Tom moved back to the window, looking out and squinting at buildings nearby—had they looked different somehow, from his own times? Maybe, walls were of brighter coloring, and lawns at their front were differently mowed, or the air itself was clearer and more transparent. Tom couldn't put his finger to the minute details of changes, but they surely were there. Or was it wishful thinking on his part?

Harry had chosen that very moment to make loud noise while falling in ungraceful heap on the floor with a crash.

Tom almost jumped at that.

Harry mumbling incoherent curses crawled back on the bed.

"Bad dream?" Tom smirked.

"Shuddup—" Harry grumbled. "What'ya doin' over there?"

"Just looking, nothing more. Worried?"

"Nope. Just curious. Come to bed."

Tom arched an eyebrow. "You do know how this sounds, do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing of importance. You can take the bed now, I'm not sleeping anyway." Tom dismissively waved his hand.

"Oh, okay. Thanks." Harry retrieved the blanket from the floor, puffed his pillow and closed his eyes with a sigh.

After a moment, though, he opened them again, looking at Tom with suspicion: "What 'bout you? Aren't tired?"

"Not at all. You can take all bed and blanket, too. I will just stay here and wait when you're awake."

"What?!" Harry spluttered. " So you can curse—I mean, _watch_ me in my sleep?! No bloody way!"

Tom smiled sweetly at that: "Afraid?"

"No. Bloody. Way." Harry repeated. "If you're not sleeping, I'm, too."

"Such eloquence," Tom drawled amused. "Is it normal for you, or is it reserved only for mornings after sleepless nights?"

Harry just gaped at him, like a fish on a shore, so Tom had made a conclusion, that it was normal occurrence for Harry. He smirked, silently appraising the boy in front of him. Scrawny, short, with messy hair and sporting huge dark bags under eyes. Definitely, malnourished, possibly abused regularly, judging by constant nervous flinching, almost skittishness even. And at the same time—very tired and _old_ look in the eyes, squinted suspiciously, stubbornly clenched jaws, so tight, that pursed lips constantly remain bloodless, giving Harry almost vampire look, especially in combination with paleness of his skin and hollow cheeks with bright red spots on the cheekbones. In comparison to Tom's own regal-like fair features and lithe physique, Harry looked ill and poor, reminding Tom of the old story of "The Prince and the Pauper" from his times in the orphanage, long and thoroughly forgotten, in the same way as he dismissed many other good stories with morality and ethic they tried to plant into the minds of eager little children there.

"Not funny," Harry responded blinking at Tom sleepily. "Why are you not tired?"

Tom shrugged. Frankly, he _was_ tired, but he was not going to admit it in front of potential opponent (if not _enemy_ ), and, moreover, he had too much on his mind and many things to do during the limited time he supposed he had before he would be returned to his own timeframe.

"Thinking too much, I suppose. You try to jump through time." Tom suggested. "As you don't want to sleep, tell me something, Harry."

Harry scowled. "Not going to. If it's something Dumble's not approving—"

Tom laughed. "Dumbles?"

Harry smirked. "It's a habit of sorts. Making nicknames for people, you know? What d'ya think of _Dumbles_?"

Tom scowled in disdain. He could despise the Professor, but he had enough respect not to invent stupid names for the man. "Don't they teach elementary things, like respect, nowadays?"

Harry giggled. "Aren't you a tight-arse? Respect, he says! He wears bloody rabbits on his robes! How do rabbits comply with respect, eh?"

Tom shook his head. "I thought so! Rabbits!" He snorted derisively. "Right. You won't even tell me your name?" Tom abruptly changed the subject back.

"Name? What d'ya mean? Did you knock your head on something? I've already told you, it's Harry."

"I am pretty sure, you know mine. It's Riddle," Tom said with scorn, as a way of explanation. "What about yours?"

Harry sighed. "Harry Potter. Not, that it will change anything, so yeah, it's Potter."

"Are you, by chance, related to Fleamont Potter, the potion maker?" Tom asked with evident curiosity.

Harry squirmed uneasily. "Possibly. Not sure, though. My parents died when I was a baby, and my mother relatives aren't very talkative, I'm afraid. The potion maker, you say?" Harry gaped at that. "Blimey! I thought all my ancestors were crap at Potions, like myself." Harry laughed bitterly. "I guess, I'm just that lucky. Granddad is famous potion maker and grandson is utterly useless in them." Harry shook his head disbelievingly.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Did I touch on a sore subject?" He smirked.

Harry shrugged the question off. "Kinda. Forget it. So, what did you want to ask?"

Tom smiled sweetly. "I take it, now you are going to answer?"

"You dream," Harry snorted. "I am just open for anything. Ask away, at least I am ready to listen if not ready to answer right now."

~*~*~*~

A/N: If for you it looks like the chapters are getting shorter, that's because I'm too eager to post the next part of the story and to hear what you think of it (and I understand completely, that it's hard to say anything after reading just short intro, hence I'm rushing to more meaningful chapters). I'll try to stall for a bit, I promise. And anyway more action and more meaning are coming to story soon, so stay tuned ;-).


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** I want to warn you of two things.  
Firstly, this chapter below could be mildly distressing or even tearful for more soft hearted readers, and for this I apologize. That should not add to the rating of the whole text yet, or, at least, not in the form everyone's waiting for, if you don't count overly sadistic authors among rating issues lol.  
And that's my second warning: I proudly place myself among authors being overly sadistic both towards their characters, and towards readers (the latter is done mostly in the form of long intervals between posting of short chapters). xDD  
From this chapter onwards the degree of stress I put the characters under will only escalate. And that's sort of an oficcial warning.

"Had the war ended?" Tom blurted out, surprising even himself.

"The war?.. You mean, with Grindewald?" Harry owlishly blinked. Tom puffed in annoyance. "Oh, you mean _Muggle_ war?.. Yeah, that one ended. Why?"

"You try to sleep under the wailing siren of constant bombing," Tom offered acidly. "They are able to go through even the most potent shield-charms."

"They?" Harry still could not understand. "Oh, you mean, bombs—"

"Stop guessing, already!" Tom snorted annoyed. "Surely, you're not that dense?"

"Listen, it's too bloody early in the morning! And you — being who you are — how was I to know..?"

"Me — being who I am?" Tom parroted. "What should that mean?"

"Well," Harry run a nervous hand through his already messy hair, "you don't seem the type to worry about such things as muggle war, that's all."

"As I said I am not particularly fond of the idea of constantly being under the bombing attack. And that could be the case, as, I recon, this is center of London. At my time bombs were threatening to fall all the time, while I was at the—ahem, — at my summer retreat."

"You mean orphanage?" Harry blurted out. And became white as a sheet instantly.

"How do you know—?" Tom blanched as well and recoiled, lowering his head in embarrassment.

"Sorry. I didn't mean—" Harry averted his eyes for some reason. "If you should know I was raised by muggle relatives of my mother. They absolutely despise magic and me. So I was their house-elf of sorts." Harry collaborated.

Tom arched an eyebrow. He hadn't asked for this bit of personal information, though, it can come in handy at a later time. Tom had understood Harry's logic, though. An eye for an eye, so to speak. Harry admitted to know some very personal things about Tom, so in return he offered something equally personal and embarrassing of his own to Tom.

Tom nodded in acknowledgment, but made no comments. His shoulders, though, hadn't relaxed. Just where had Harry found that bit of personal information on Tom? And when had he the time for it? As far as Tom was concerned, Harry was awoken in the middle of this same night on which Tom arrived at this time, after Tom met with Dumbledore and was brought here. So either Harry is simply a walking library and Tom's life is all out in the open for everyone to learn about, or this stranger is no stranger at all to Tom, which he himself just simply hadn't know yet.

"Think nothing of it, Riddle," Harry suggested. "I am not the type to talk at each and every corner about other's personal stuff. You were talking about the war—"

"I do _not_ want to talk about it. _Any_ of it." Tom pursed his lips tightly. His mood was officially ruined now. He contemplated sleeping for a while, but in the end decided against it, as Harry certainly had something on him and Tom was not going to trust him not to try anything funny while Tom was sleeping.

"So, no more questions?" Harry smirked, certainly relieved.

"On the contrary. But I am not going to ask them now," Tom waved a hand dismissively. "If you'd like you can sleep for a while, and I will turn a back on you, so you won't be disturbed by me watching."

"You are not going to agree to hand me your wand and won't allow me to cast a body-bind on you, right?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Tom just snorted.

"I am not sleeping then," Harry decided.

Tom just shrugged and turned his back on Harry, looking out of the window once again. He was not going to admit it, even to himself, but Tom was glad that he wouldn't be hearing bombing siren again any time soon. Last time he heard it, during the previous summer, he was out of the orphanage, on the street several blocks away from it and from the familiar shelter, usually occupied only by residents of said establishment. He was completely frozen in place in the middle of the road, when the awful sound came from above, indicating aeroplanes coming in. People were running in all directions, children wailing even louder then the blasted siren. The rain was pouring over them with wind of such force, that road signs were rattling in it, which just made things worse — Tom was already shaken from cold in his wet clothes, even before the start of an attack.

" _Don't just stand here, lad! Go-go-go, the shelter's over there!" Some man passing him by roughly pushed Tom towards the opening in the ground near the closest building, inside of which people were disappearing quickly. Tom stumbled on something on his way, while rushing to the safety of the shelter._

" _Mommy, mommy!" Some kid was crying right in front of Tom, frantically looking around. The street had not been too wide to begin with, but now it seemed even narrower. Tom tried to go past the crying child, and at the same moment the little demon decided to dive right under Tom's feet. Tom managed to stop at the last second just shy of stomping on the kid's outstretched hand. It won't do to argue with some Muggle over some stray child's injury right under the Nazi bombs, not being able to cast a shield charm, what with being in front of the crowd of Muggles. "Mommy!.._ _you saw my mama?"_ _The child looked up at Tom with hope in big eyes full of tears. The child was holding dirty stuffed toy, which he seemed to pick up from under Tom's feet a moment ago._

 _Tom was freezing cold and dripping wet, the bombs could begin falling any second, and this cry-baby was looking for toys in dirt!_

" _Mama—" The kid sniffed, it looked like he was going to start crying again. Tom rolled his eyes and sidestepping this nuisance of a child ran for the shelter. He was not going to risk his life for some stupid kid's—_

 _The first bomb was falling already, making a recognizable nightmarish sound, when Tom was at the entrance of the shelter. He was going down the short stairs to the door, still open, but rapidly closing in his face._

" _Wai—" His voice was muffled by the sound of fallen bomb exploding and one of the nearby buildings collapsing with a loud crashing sound._

 _The child, who was a split second before still crying loud enough to be heard even over the explosion, had abruptly shut up._ _Tom reluctantly turned around: the child was lying in dirty puddle with his eyes closed, still tightly clutching the toy to his chest. It looked like the kid was dead_ _—_

 _No! Small chest_ _has_ _risen and fell again, then the child opened his eyes and met Tom's gaze. Next second_ _he averted the gaze, but caught sight of the child'_ _eyes open_ _ing_ _even wider, the boy scrambled to his small wobbly feet: "Mommy!"_ _and tried to run towards the shelter._

 _With the corner of his eye Tom noticed, that the door to shelter was fully opened, and turned to it: there was a young girl, not much older than Tom himself, standing at the doorstep, with her eyes wide open with fear and full of tears. She was whispering brokenly: "Tommy—"_

 _Tom shuddered upon hearing his own name in such caring and desperate tone and turned his head to the street for the last time, ready to enter the shelter. The child was running to them. Tom turned away, raising his hand to push the shaking girl aside to clear his way. She made small sound of distress and began to slowly slide down to the ground along the door frame, her legs giving in under her. Tom was not going to look back—_

 _The child was once again lying on the ground, his leg was bent under strange angle, but he was still trying to crawl to the shelter door, to his mother._

 _Tom was shaking violently —the second bomb had fallen on the parallel street just moment ago, and he was hearing the unmistakable sound of yet another bomb going down right this second. There was now way of knowing where it will land—_

" _Tommy—" he heard behind him._

 _Cursing under his breath, he drew his wand almost fully out, leaving it covered by his sleeve, but clutching tightly —just like that kid was holding his stuffed bear —and pointed towards the child: "_ _ **Acci**_ _—"_ _he changed his mind at the last moment, sprinting on his long legs to the child and raising him up, holding with one hand, and casting complex shield charm with another hand, already heading back to the shelter._

 _The girl at the door gave out a shout of joy, stretching her arms out for the child in Tom's grip. Right at this moment the next bomb, which had been stalled by his magic for several moments necessary to get to the child and return back, finally went through the invisible barrier overhead and exploded behind his back. Tom managed to cover the child and_ _the_ _mother with his bo_ _dy, falling on top of them at the doorstep of the shelter from the aftershock of the explosion behind and the hit of some stray stone from the crashing building._

 _He came to his senses shortly afterwards, still lying face down, when he heard the familiar crying sound and tenderly spoken "Tommy—"_ _somewhere near him. His head was hurting, as was his back, even the back of his legs was stinging with dull pain. He was not freezing anymore, but that, possibly, was because he was lying in another person's lap and there definitely were many people around him: he was hearing constant low murmuring, quiet sobs and other sounds usual for the bomb-shelter during the attack. Tom raised to his feet slowly, trying to ignore his sore back and growing headache._

" _Lay down, kiddo! You were hit pretty hard there!" A man with thick Irish accent said to him, patting him gently on the shoulder. Tom winced at the discomfort — even small touch and even not directly to his back brought a fresh wave of stinging pain. "Sorry, kid, it seems, you've got pretty nasty burn on your back," A man apologized, "but we don't have anything for the burns here, you need to wait for after the attack to get treated. Just bear for a while more. I know you must be in a lot of pain, but—" Tom just shrugged dismissively, immediately regretting to have moved his shoulders, as stinging sensation now did turn to "a lot of pain", as a man had put it. Tom bit his lip, trying to swallow the scream. It seemed that this in turn had awoken his receding headache, so he felt as if someone was trying to break free through his temples with hammers. His vision became blurry with dark and bright spots here and there. He swayed on his feet._

" _Hey, you better sit down—" the same Irish man suggested. Tom reluctantly agreed, though his back was protesting: he felt another wave of stinging pain when he tried to bend his back so he was forced to held his back absolutely straight. And no wonder, that his headache was not going away, as some child was still crying loudly very close to Tom. He winced, looking around in seach for the source of this annoying sound._

 _It was the familiar child who had just recently interfered with Tom's escape. The boy was screaming in pain, Tom realized, remembering how unnaturally the child's leg was bent after his fall on his way to the shelter. There was no way the little monster will stop crying anytime soon, Tom understood, scowling in annoyance. He raised to his feet again, swallowing his own cry of pain in the process, and came to the child who laid to the other side of_ _young girl_ _—_ _it was her lap where Tom woke up_ _._ _Tom didn't know what he was going to do_ _—_ _just that he wanted these screams to end, so_ _he_ _needed to do something, anything. He went down on his knees beside the crying child, but still haven't decided what he was going to do._

 _His back was killing him. Headache was stronger every minute, growing with each scream of the child. His clothes were still very wet, if not for the crowd around him, he would already be shaking with cold_ _—_

 _Something was sliding from one of his shoulders, falling to the ground near him. Tom realized that for some reason he now fel_ _t_ _the draught along his injured back, when just minutes ago he was warm. He stretched his hand and touched the thing on the floor._

 _It was shawl. That girl's shawl, he had seen this piece of clothing on her, when he met her at the entrance to the shelter. Her child was crying from cold and pain, lying on the stone floor, but she had lent her last clothes to some stranger_ _—_

 _Not_ _ **some**_ _stranger, Tom realized. He remembered running under the howling of falling bomb and understanding dawned on him._

 _ **Muggles**_ _, he thought with disdain._ _ **She was just standing there looking with crocodile tears in her wide eyes at her own son, but now is throwing away the last piece of warm clothing for some stranger. And all because this stranger happen to save her little monster, when she could not.**_

 _Tom scowled and once more drew his wand out, this time not even bothering to cover it with his sleeve. Anyway the only light in this hole of a shelter were coming from a little bulb in far corner, and even that light was dim and unsteadily blinking every now and then._

 _Tom moved closer to the child, putting the tip of his wand to the injured foot of the boy._ _He_ _knew enough Healing charms to single-handedly run a hospital in the middle of war-torn London and was creative enough to invent even more of them, replacing other means of magical healing, which were unavailable to him while being in Muggle world during war times_ _—_ _like potions, for instance_ _—_ _so mending a broken bone was a small matter to Tom. He slowly led the tip of his wand up along the broken bone, muttering quiet incantation and channelling his magic through his wand_ _—_

 _Only to find that he didn't have any magic left in him. He felt a surge of cold coming from his very core, swayed, while still kneeling above the child, and instinctively put his hands in front of him, trying to prevent landing face first on the broken leg of the boy underneath. At the end he managed to steady himself on one of his hands, but pressed another hand to the boy's leg accidentally, causing him to cry out in pain. This acrobatics disturbed Tom's own injuries, forcing him to bite his lip hard to stop the embarrassing whining_ _sound_ _coming out of his mouth. He felt wet warmth at his chin, possibly from splitting open the lip with his own teeth. But that was nothing in comparison to his back and head, which was still throbbing with such intensity, that it was hard to breathe evenly. Tom felt another surge from inside of him, this time it was blazing hot and left him totally empty and shaking violently with_ _abruptly returned_ _cold, which he felt not only on the outside, but inside, as well. As he was still almost lying atop of the child, this surge of hot energy, the remnants of his_ _ **magic**_ _, Tom presumed, went through his hand, still pressing against boy's leg, doing exactly that, which he could not achieve just moments ago_ _—_ _successfully mending the broken bone, although Tom hadn't seen this, already turning his head away in shame._

 _Feeling totally drained and weaker than a newborn mouse, now wet not just because of rain-drenched clothes, but being from head to toe in cold sweat, breathing only every other time, either from panic_ _of loosing his magic_ _or from_ _magical_ _exhaustion, Tom managed to crawl to the dark corner nearby before anyone understood what was happening._

 _There, in the corner, he was laying on his stomach, not feeling strong enough to raise to his feet yet, and hiding his face, which was covered in tears, in the crease of his elbow. He had_ _ **lost his magic**_ _. He became a_ _ **Squib**_ _. And all because of some crying baby! How stupid one should be! That was only some_ _ **Muggle**_ _child! And to think that he risked his precious_ _ **life**_ _for this garbage! Tom was still violently shaking and his head was spinning, vision darkening now and again, his weakness was so overwhelming, that he thought he was going to be sick, feeling_ _the_ _bile rising in his throat at the mere prospect of living as a Squib at the dreaded and hated orphanage, never again returning to Hogwarts._

" _Tommy— Oh, Tommy! You're all cured, my little baby! How—?" Tom heard the familiar voice behind him._

 _ **What? 'All cured', she says? How, indeed—**_

 _Tom froze on the spot. His magic. He hadn't lost it. Not completely, at least. Some of it remained, enough to cure the broken leg and any other injuries that boy had._

 _Tom smiled, than grinned more widely, laughing to himself, firstly quietly, then louder, as understanding fully settled in. He began shaking with laughter, but immediately stopped, feeling familiar stinging pain at his burnt back. His head, too, was still aching, so much so, that he felt nausea rising again in his stomach._

 _Cursing under his breath, Tom hurriedly raised to his feet, ignoring his aching back and head, as he didn't want to lay in his own vomit, if it came to that. It appeared, his magic had cured the boy, but bypassed Tom himself, leaving all his injuries in place. Such bitter irony!_

 _He was weak, swaying lightly, and the world was trying to spin in front of his watery eyes, his vision still unstable, but he desperately needed some air, preferably more fresh than the air in this hole full of sweating dirty Muggles._

 _Tom made unsteady step towards the closed door._

" _Wait! You saved my son! You saved us! Thank you! Thank you!" The girl was kneeling at his feet, clutching quietly sniffing child to her chest and looking up at Tom with huge eyes at the brink of tears._

 _Tom scoffed in hardly conceived disdain. "I didn't do anything. Move, girl!"_

" _No, no, you can't go there! They're still throwing bombs on the town! It's dangerous! And you're injured!" The girl gripped his leg, or rather, the cloth of his trousers, trying to stop him._

 _He sneered without coherent words, as the abrupt movement caused a new wave of pain shooting through his back, then tried to shake her hand off, but the girl was not going to let go of his clothes, despite her child' quiet sobs getting louder again._

" _Please, let me help you! That's the least I can do! For my child!—" She held out the child to him for the reason beyond his comprehension. "You cured him!—"_

" _Hush, girl!" Tom hissed, clasping a hand over her big loud mouth. Why should she cry like that, and at the place full of horrified, injured people, at that! He shook his head, immediately regretting the gesture, as it caused another surge of nausea rise in his throat. He coughed, suppressing the sickness, mortified of the prospect of vomiting in front of so many people, embarrassing himself even further than before. The cough caused a new wave of hot pain spreading along his burnt back, and his knees gave under him, throwing him down, right in front of the girl, and next second he was violently throwing up almost at her feet, desperately trying to support himself with one hand so as not to land face-first in his own mess and frantically hiding the wand up his other sleeve, before someone else with soft heart decided to help him hold 'the strange stick' or better yet to throw it away or to take it to the bonfire._

 _The girl had put the child down and tried to help Tom, but only managed to make things worse: she patted him soothingly on the seemingly uninjured shoulder, and, like before, this caused the twitching of the muscles on his burnt back, bringing him even more pain. Lost in this pain, Tom, not being able to hold it in any more, didn't even register his own piteous whimper, barely standing on his wobbly knees and one hand, pressing the other — with the wand up the sleeve — to his chest. His vision, already blurry before, had now become almost pitch black, his nausea had finally stopped, and he collapsed on his side in exhaustion, loosing consciousness even before his head touched the cold stone underneath._

 _When he woke up the next time, he saw the familiar wall of the medical ward at the orphanage, and at first he decided, that all this was some nightmare, his subconscious telling him to get away from Muggles and their wars, before it became too late. And then he saw a familiar form lying on the bed beside him — the girl with the child in her arms, quietly sleeping in her embrace. The girl, though, was laying with her eyes open, staring at him._

 _When she saw that Tom had woken up, she smiled hesitantly and shyly._

" _You're awake! Someone recognized you, said you're from this place, so others helped me bring you here, after the bombing ended. You've been sleeping for almost three days. Another hour and they were going to throw your comatose body out on the street. I feared that, so stayed here, to take care of you if this happens." The girl was rambling so fast, he thought he lost some of the phrases she had spoken._

" _Go'way," Tom rasped, his throat dry and voice rusty from three days of sleep. "I did nothing—"_

" _Here," instead of leaving, the girl got up, put the sleeping child at the bed she'd vacated and brought him a cup of water. "Drink this," she offered tenderly. "They said your name's also Tom," she looked at the child, "just like my son's," she smiled gently, holding a cup to his lips — Tom was lying on his stomach, presumably, because of the burn on his back. The burn in question, it appeared, had been lubricated with some ointment, and he felt some bandages put on it, too._

 _Tom managed to swallow some water, before choking on it and feeling a familiar sensation of nausea, rising in his stomach. He swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to throw up, red creeping up his neck and cheeks from embarrassment. He remembered the last minutes before he collapsed at that bomb-shelter, throwing up right in front of this girl, and in front of other people, too._

" _Here," the girl once again brought him something. Blushing even redder, than before he glared helplessly at the bucket in her hands. "If you're going to be sick—" the girl half-explained, then abruptly stopped, "oh, you need—" coming to the absolutely wrong conclusion, the girl exclaimed, also blushing. Tom coughed more violently, which brought his back on fire with pain, and, like before, at the bomb-shelter, the pain had caused more nausea. He uncontrollably whimpered, not being able to tolerate both the pain and sickness, bit on his lip hard, once again splitting it open with his teeth and squirmed his eyes shut in absolute embarrassment, giving in, at last, to nausea, as it threatened to overwhelm him completely, even pushing aside the pain he had been struggling with._

" _Sh-sh," the girl ran a gently hand through his hair, easing some of his headache, while he was throwing up into the bucket, which she was holding in front of him. His vomiting stopped rather quickly this time, as his stomach had been almost empty after three days Tom was lying unconscious, only eventually getting his lips watered with damp cloth, and with no food at all getting inside of him. He was horrified to see blood, coming out of his mouth just before his nausea ceased._

" _Water," the girl removed the offending bucket from under his nose, and brought another cup of water, "gently, gently," she helped him hold his head up, putting tender hand under his wobbly chin. His teeth rattled on the brim of the cup, as he slowly began to shake from the after-effects of being sick. Tom didn't want to open his eyes, as tears filled them, as he was afraid that she would see his yet another weakness._

 _Damnit! Last time he had cried was when he was four and other boys from his bedroom tried to take away his tiny baby-snake. That time Tom bravely fought protecting his pet, managed to break three arms and one rib of his opponents before they finally put him out hitting him on his head with a thick wooden stick. Even then Tom was merely distressed over the loose of his pet, not minding his own injuries, before the boys had gone to the stern Matron with their complaints about_ _ **him**_ _being the bully. Of course, that landed him in detention, never mind, that he, too, was beaten up badly, and just lost his pet! He spent a night kneeling on the cold floor of the chapel, and two days with only piece of bread and cup of water for a meal after that, but those boys just landed in the medical ward and that was it. That night, while kneeling on the hard cold stone floor of the chapel, Tom cried because of this absolute injustice, and that was the very last time he'd shed even one tear for something or somebody, especially himself. It had been eleven years since then, and never once he had broken his own promise._

 _Tom took a shaky breath, trying not to move any more muscles of his back that was absolutely necessary. Then he suddenly remembered: his wand! Surely, they've taken it, as he had not hidden it very well, had simply put it inside his sleeve and then fell on that same side—_

 _No! What if it was broken? He did fall on top of it, after all. And was in no condition to care—_

" _Oh, by the way, I've found something in your clothes, when I was throwing them away," the girl said. "Here— I saw you poking my son with this thing before you healed him," the girl took something from under the mattress of the bed she had been lying on earlier. "I thought maybe I need to hide it," she added. And hold his_ _ **wand**_ _out to him. Tom breathed a deep sigh of relief, quickly grabbing his wand and trying to put it into his now absent sleeve, out of habit. Realizing his own mistake he huffed in annoyance and tried to hide his wand under the mattress underneath him. The girl helped him, but even then the effort and acrobatics had left him sweaty and panting, barely suppressing the shudder from pain in the disturbed burn on his back. Worrying his already wounded lips with his teeth, Tom dropped his head on the mattress in front of him, turning away from the girl, and tried to steady his ragged breath, before the movement would cause yet another wave of pain._

" _You know," the girl offered, "I've seen people with the less severe burns screaming their lungs out in pain. But you—" she trailed off._

" _I've high tolerance," Tom answered through gritted teeth, not bothering to turn his face back to the girl. "Leave… please," he added as an afterthought. She was witness to his humiliation. Thrice, already. Firstly, when his magic had defied him, and then with him being weak as a mouse and throwing up in front of her. He didn't want to do something nasty to her, for the first time in his life, maybe, he wanted not to kill or maim or hurt her in any other way, but simply that she would leave and would never see him again. He was afraid of what he'd do if she_ _ **won't**_ _leave, though. She was still a potential threat to him and to wizards, in general, having seen him perform magic and having even touched his wand._ _ **But**_ _, he thought,_ _ **I would rather see her smile like this again, than shed even one tear from those huge green eyes of hers, and I definitely don't want her to see me this weak and humiliated. I wonder, what's… her name?**_ _At that thought Tom intentionally moved, hissing immediately, as sharp pang of pain shot through his burnt back, successfully distracting him from this dangerous path of thought. He didn't want to know. He_ _ **needn't**_ _know. "Leave!" he barked, this time more fiercely than before, trying to scare her away._

 _Heavy silence was deafening to his ears. At last, Tom heard rustling of sheets—she took the sleeping child from the bed and left, slamming the door behind her in annoyance._

Tom drew shaky breath, pushing the ghost of that old heartache to the back of his mind, once again thoroughly forgetting the embarrassment and humiliation he'd endured that time together with the deeply rooted fear of loosing the only thing that mattered to him _—_ his _**magic**_ , more precious to him, than even his life, though, that, too, he could have lost during that attack and its aftermath for the life of a mere _**Muggle**_ 's child.

 **A/N:** I wasn't plannig on some of the happenings of this shapter. Like, at all. And such seriousness and author's sadism, too, were not planned.

I thought, this fic is going to be light and funny. Just you wish, Bronsky! The characters decided for me xDD  
P.S. I nad definetely banished my writer's block, as I have not only this story at least a little bit planned ahead with some sort of a goal to aim for, but several other stories (for fandom and not, i.e. original) are being planned or worked at, too, both in English and in Russian. Hurray!


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

Harry carefully watched Riddle, as he stood looking out of the window, lost deep in thoughts, it seemed, for a long time. All color left Tom's face together with remnants of good mood even before that, when Harry accidentally admitted to know about his life at the orphanage. And now Riddle, though handsome as sin, were looking very much like a pale see-through ghost with black circles under deeply seated dark eyes and hollow pale cheeks, lips pressed to thin line, and even his nose in the greyish light of early morning looked more hooked, or crooked than anything, reminding Harry of some bird of prey, or vulture even, looking for the weakness of his future breakfast.

Harry shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, when Tom finally turned back to face the room _—_ and Harry _—_ again.

"Something on your mind?" Tom asked, and though his tone was polite enough, the look in his eyes was still predatory. He arched a brow to emphasize his half-question and half-demand, waiting for Harry's answer.

"Not in particular," Harry responded, sounding equally politely, but with aggressive glint of his own in the eyes. "Just wondering—" he trailed off, leaving it to Tom to finish the sentence, if he wished so.

"Either wonder in your own head or ask already," Riddle huffed in annoyance. "What is it you are so loudly thinking in your head? I think I even heard the gears screeching in there somewhere," Tom snorted, corners of pursed lips raising in pretense amusement, though, it was clear as day to Harry, that there was no even trace of humor behind those dark blue eyes and icy facade of his face.

"I was just wondering who were you seeing right now, when you turned around," Harry inquired carefully, examining the face in front of him, looking for a small twitch of mouth, pulse on the temple, any trace of humanity, which was worth saving, still being there.

Maybe, he was, indeed, too late. Or maybe, there was no one to save there from the start.

Harry turned away, not expecting his opponent to answer at all, even more so — answer truthfully.

"Your eyes reminded me of someone I met long ago," admitted Riddle quietly, surprising even himself. He wasn't going to answer, Harry saw it in his eyes, but still—

"A friend?" What was he expecting, honesty? Open heart? From _**Riddle**_? He was barking mad, surely! If Riddle would now decide to answer, Harry was going to firecall St. Mungo's to book a bed in the Ward for the Mentally Deranged for himself, while there is still some sanity left in him.

"If a friend is someone, who treats your wounds and gladly brings you the bucket when you need it, then yes, you could say so. A friend—" Tom's voice broke at the last syllable. "She had the same eyes of _Avada Kedavra_ green, like you have," he added, for no apparent reason.

"A witch?" Now Harry was really interested.

Maybe that was his mother's ancestor? Maybe, there, too, were someone with magic in their veins, and those awful people he called his "relatives" are no relatives at all, but strangers, and on his mother's side there, too, were wizards?

"Hardly," Tom admitted, and, surprising Harry even further, elaborated: "I picked her child at the street and brought him to the shelter during the bombing that one time, got a nasty burn at my back in their stead and even nastier concussion, and was for three days in a coma because of this. If she was a witch, surely, she could have done all this without my help? And she returned me my wand, while never really understanding what it meant." Tom winced. "Why I should tell you this, again?" he asked with a grimace of distress on his face. "You already know some very private information about me — how did you learn it, by the way? — so I have no obligation to tell you anymore of my 'personal stuff', as you've politely put it." He pushed himself off from the windowsill and, going round Harry's stilled form, made it for the door.

"Wait—" Harry shut his mouth with an audible click. He had no _obligation_ to warn Tom of the spell. And, if anything, Dumbledore had already elaborated some, at least, on that matter. Harry, too, was in the dark here, as he also didn't have a clue, how this spell should work, either in normal situation, or broken, like their seemed to be, if the reaction of the Headmaster was anything to go by, together with the unpleasant, to say the least, sensation during the spellwork.

Harry waited, and then waited some more. For a total of whole two minutes. When he decided, that the spell didn't work after all, he went for the door at his usual speed, not rushing or slowing on purpose.

Nothing.

He shrugged and opened the door.

The dark corridor was empty, the only light being a grayish tint of dawn pouring through the door he was standing in. Harry almost turned and went back to the room. It seemed, Riddle had gone and find himself an empty room to brood, when nothing happened with the broken spell, as Harry was absolutely sure that there were wards on the street-door preventing anyone and anything from both coming in and out of the house. If not wards, then Sirius' angry mother, or her portrait, to be accurate, was more than enough to stall everyone at the entrance or at least warn of their presence there —leaving or entering the premises. Mrs. Black's portrait was quiet, just random low murmuring from deranged woman occasionally reaching the second floor.

All was absolutely quiet. Harry turned on his heels—

A sigh. Shaky, on the brink of whimpering, but very light, still. The sound came from farthest and darkest corner of the second floor, across the stairs' opening, and on the opposite end of the corridor.

How Harry managed to catch the sound he didn't know. Even more so, he didn't have a clue how he determined the place, where the noise came from, as it was really dark here.

Harry squinted his eyes, trying to see in the dark, to catch a glimpse of what was it. He wasn't really eager to accidentally meet face to face with some of the Black house nasty surprises right now.

Another quite loud sigh from the far corner, and at this very moment something jerked his hand in the same direction. Next second it was as if something was pulling him by the wrist precisely to that dark _breathing_ corner, ignoring the absence of the solid floor over the opening for the stairs. Harry didn't see what it was, as his wrist was pulled, it seemed, by empty air. One can never tell with all this magic, true, but Harry was sure, that _breathing_ and this pull on his hand was related somehow—

Of course! The spell!

This was the same hand, which he got burnt during Dumbledore's spellwork. Then, that breathing in the corner, that should be Riddle, right?

What was it again, that the Headmaster said about this spell?

" _This spell will_ _ **bind**_ _Tom to you… mere_ _ **physical proximity**_ _… on his side… remain_ _ **within**_ _ten feet_ — _"_ Harry recalled. None of this brought him even close to understanding of what was going on now. And what he should or could do to remedy the problem at his hands, as there definitely was a problem of some sort, he just knew it.

Meanwhile, more than five minutes had already passed from the moment, when Riddle left their room. Even if the spell activated only after some time, when Riddle crossed the invisible boundary of being "ten feet away" from Harry, than still more than enough time had passed afterwards.

Harry carefully closed the remaining distance between himself and _breathing_ corner.

And there, indeed, was Tom Riddle. He sighed shakily, when Harry approached, his sigh being more of a sob, really. Riddle was bent over himself, clawing at his throat with tense hands, scratching it with his nails, white as sheet and, hardly even breathing, as Harry realized, because the earlier sighs, which he'd heard, were very shallow and very rare to be normal human breathing. His lips almost disappeared they were pursed so tight at the moment, and there was thin dark line on his chin — either from scratching, too, or maybe he bit through his lip and it was blood from the wound, Harry didn't know. Riddle swayed on his feet, as Harry came even more closer, but recoiled from his outstretched hand, stumbling in the process and landing ungracefully on his arse in order not to fall over the balustrade surrounding the stairs.

Ignoring Riddle's halfhearted protests in the form of recoiling and his tries to crawl away, while staying on his arse, Harry quickly sat on the floor beyond his back and put his hands around Riddle's shoulders, hugging him from behind. The last of half-voiced whimpers died at Riddle's lips almost instantly. He became quiet as a deadman, and, Harry noticed, just as cold. Riddle was still shaking like a leaf in the storm, and convulsion, wave after wave went through his body at irregular intervals.

"Sh-sh," almost not thinking, Harry drew slow circles with his hands on Riddle's shoulders, massaging the stone-like tension away from his muscles, then carefully moved to rub his backside with one hand, still holding his other hand around his shoulders. "It's okay—"

"Get off me!" Riddle barked. Or tried to, as he still hasn't regained his normal composure and hadn't found his usual voice after obvious suffocation earlier. So instead of fierce command he gave away little more then a shaky whimper and once again tried to hide in himself. As Harry was tightly holding him around the shoulders with one hand and had put another hand on his head at this very moment, Riddle couldn't do anything more than flinching and putting his elbow in Harry's stomach. Hard.

Harry, with a breathless sob of his own, sprang back from the offending elbow and bent over his injured middle, putting his free hand across his abdomen, clutching it and grunting from pain, but even then not removing the hand, with which he was hugging Riddle.

Young Voldemort hissed in annoyance, trying to break free from Harry's embrace and failing miserably, as he was still suffering from after-effects of the working, though broken, spell — involuntarily convulsing every now and then, biting on his lip in at least obvious discomfort from these, if not pain, shaking and absolutely freezing, still having problem with his breathing, as he instinctively tried to claw at his throat again several times, before Harry put a stop to it, catching Tom's hand in his own, and entwining their hands, almost like it was before, during the Headmaster's spellwork.

"Calm down already, will you!" Harry hissed, exhausted from struggling with Riddle, while trying to catch his own breath and soothing Riddle's aftershock at the same time. "I am not going to devour you, you know."

"Get off me!" Riddle responded fiercely, though almost voiceless after his strange suffocation, and again struggled to break free from Harry's hands.

"Bloody hell!" That was the proverbial last straw — Riddle had bitten Harry on the hand, still tightly wound around the elder boy's shoulders.

Harry pushed his again-opponent away, pressing his injured hand to his — also injured — midsection, and flinched away, immediately raising to his feet and angrily turning on his heals to return to his room. He hadn't managed to cover even half of the corridor — the spot in front of the upper step of the stairs — when he heard the same laboured and rare breathing behind him, followed after just three noisy intakes by a sob and a loud thud.

Even as angry as he was, Harry could not turn away from a human in pain.

He turned back— only to find Riddle, standing on his knees, already half-way through the distance separating them, supporting himself by one hand just shy of falling face-first to the floor and desperately clawing at his throat with another hand. All this — in dead silence. His blanched face again was looking very much like a ghost' in the darkness of the empty corridor, eyes bloodshot and darkened, pupils constricted with pain and lack of air and almost lost in the stormy black of his irises, which were slowly reddening even while Harry looked him in the eyes.

"Tom—" Harry hurried over to him, dodged his blind-aimed blow with ease, then another one, and finally caught his falling form in the last second, before Tom's unconscious body made it through the opening and onto the descending stairs. "Bloody Merlin's balls!" Harry hissed several more curses of choice, while trying to move Riddle's still form towards their room.

If what happened earlier was anything to go by, he needed more "physical proximity" with his nemesis to bring the latter back to his senses, and Harry wasn't fond of the idea at all. But if it was really necessary, he had been definitely not ready to explain how he ended up hugging Tom Riddle of all people, and in the middle of the corridor, at that matter, not to anyone, and surely not to Ron, in particular. And if he remembered correctly, his friend could be coming any minute after the sun rises, at least that was what Dumbledore had promised when retrieving him from the Dursleys the night before.

Finally, Harry had managed to half-drag and half-carry unconscious Riddle to where he needed him. Puffing from exhaustion and wiping sweat from the forehead, Harry thoroughly closed the door, regretting choosing this room, as lock on the door was broken. Alas, this should do for now, as he was not in the shape or mood to move to yet another stretch of corridor, especially, in the backwards direction — as the closest empty room was exactly there. As to why he stubbornly dragged Riddle back here, Harry was not very sure himself. Either that other room sported some trouble instead of offering of free beds, or he moved here out of habit, not registering the presence of another vacant room on his way, being in such a distressed state of mind.

After raising Riddle up to the bed from the floor, Harry proceeded with lying beside him himself and wrapping not only his arms, but legs, as well, around Riddle's slender form. Drawing soothing circles on his arms and back and humming absent-mindedly some tune which came to his mind, Harry had laid there for some time, not minding his surroundings. He couldn't say he was fully asleep then, as he continued moving his hands rhythmically and humming one tune after the other, but at some point in time he finally did fall asleep for real.

* * *

Harry woke with a start, hearing some unfamiliar voice, whispering something incoherently and very angrily right above his head. That other whispering voice was more recognizable, even in his slumber — Dumbledore. With whom the Headmaster was arguing, though, Harry couldn't catch. It sounded, as if he heard that voice before, but only briefly, not really registering it fully in his memory yet. Harry tried to open his eyes, only to find his vision totally blocked by someone's nape, and his mouth full of stranger's hair. Spitting it out furiously, Harry tried to back away and ended up on the floor, hitting it with a loud thud, while the stranger landed on top of him. The other's hand accidentally hit him in the midsection, precisely at the already swollen spot, making him hiss in pain, and Harry at last remembered everything which had transpired the night before and the morning after that same night.

A person — Tom Riddle — hurriedly raised to his feet and continued to argue with the Professor, in full volume now, though his voice was still raspy from sleep.

"I would really appreciate, if you kindly elaborate more on the nature of the spell you put on me — us —the night before, as it had definitely gone wrong somewhere during spellcasting or afterwards," Riddle hissed rather furiously. Though Harry could hardly blame him, not after everything that Riddle went through earlier because of this spell, which should definitely be broken. Harry sent a silent plea, looking Dumbledore in the eye, but not bothered getting up yet, as his back and legs were still sore — from the fall and from uncomfortable position he had been sleeping in.

The Headmaster glared at him silently, but immediately returned to his argument with Riddle.

"You are in no position to make demands, Mr. Riddle. I have no obligation to anyone, least of all you, to explain myself — or my spellwork. I will elaborate on this matter, when I see fit, and not a second earlier. Should you require anything — food or clothes — go through Harry first. He will require necessary items from the house-elves, as they are, too, not obliged to listen to your commands, or requests. In rare cases, requiring my interference, you again go through Harry here, first."

Dumbledore's manner of communication reminded Harry of Snape at his worst, for some reason.

"I need to give my full attention to the matter of returning you to your home," the Headmaster continued, "so I don't have time to respond to your every whim. Also I should remind you that you should at all times stay within ten feet of Harry, as the consequences could be unpredictable. You noticed yourself that the spell hadn't worked as intended."

"And how it was intended to work, may I ask?" barely containing his anger, Riddle spat out.

"You may ask, " Dumbledore agreed, smiling humorlessly, "but don't expect an answer to your every question, I am not an encyclopedia," he finished grimly. Then Dumbledore's eyes fell on Harry and his features softened, "Harry, you alright, ma'boy? That was some very loud fall," his smile was genuine this time, even with his famous twinkle in the eye.

"I'm okay, Professor. It's just—"

"Well, that's good then. I am truly sorry, Mr. Potter, but I really should be going — time-travel research is very — ahem — time-consuming, I must confess," yawning in the middle of his little speech, admitted the Headmaster. "See you later, gentlemen," and with this words Dumbledore, like the night before, was gone.

After this small spectacle, not only Riddle, but Harry as well was fuming with anger. That was really uncharacteristic of the old Headmaster to behave this way, openly dismissing one of the students and favoring another in front of him. Surely, the old Professor was biased, but before he used to at least pretend, to hide behind the facade of kind and loving grandfather to all children of Hogwarts, instead of sporting open favoritism.

"Need a hand there?" Riddle's attitude abruptly changed, he was looking down at Harry from the bed, where he was lying on his stomach, holding out a hand to Harry.

Harry's brows raised in disbelief.

"What happened with 'get off me, Potter'? Forgot that already?" he asked suspiciously.

"No. Just being polite," Riddle shrugged, smiling sweetly, but his smile quickly turned to grimace, as small wound on his lip reopened, some blood dripping on his chin.

"That must hurt," Harry winced in sympathy. He knew all too well how stingy the broken lip could be, as it was one of his most often and usual injuries — both from an accidental slap on the face from one of the Dursley males or from biting through his lip during a particularly bad nightmare.

Riddle snorted dismissively and hopped off the bed. "Are you getting up? When the Old Fart first came in, he said something about your friends not coming today. I suppose, because of me, for which I should apologize."

Once again Harry's brows raised in surprise.

"Apologize?" he repeated.

"I recon, the end of your holidays is ruined because of my appearance here, in this time. So I apologize for not traveling somewhere else instead. Though, that's not entirely my fault, as it was your precious "Dumbles", who brought you here to keep me company," Riddle added with vicious glint in his eyes. Harry noticed that now they were of rather normal color, if just a bit dark. Maybe during the morning accident he simply imagined those red eyes, subconsciously anticipating their appearance at some point?

He blinked, averting his gaze from Riddle's, abruptly remembering that Voldemort was very skilled at Legilimency, and for it to work one needed to look you in the eye.

Riddle snorted derisively and rolled his eyes at him.

"I know what you're thinking," he sneered. "Not literally. Yet. But that could be remedied, don't you worry. I've long since acquired the necessary knowledge, which assists those with such a special talent as required for reading one's mind."

Harry wanted to shook Riddle's rather overburdened sentences out of his head. Or, preferably, out of Riddle's head directly, sidestepping Harry's poor overloaded ears.

"Listen, Riddle, can you speak less in riddles, may be? My head is going to explode as it is, without additional help from a bigmounth like yourself."

"Was it intentional?" Riddle drawled, dangerously narrowing his eyes. "I hope, not, as I do not tolerate when someone's making fun of my father's name, even being as Muggle and low-life as he was," he sneered, "he was still my father, and only I am allowed to insult him, and even that should transpire beyond the metaphorical closed doors."

Harry sighed heavily.

"It was not my intention and, rest assured, it will never be. I apologize. And now could you maybe, _please_ , stop speaking in such overloaded sentences and low yourself a little closer to my humble ground level? After so little sleep it's hard to simply keep one's eyes open, let alone decipher your enigmatic, though brilliant (of this I am sure), speeches."

Riddle's chuckle turned to open snickering in a matter of seconds during Harry's heated speech.

"Alright, I get it, oh humble grounded one," still chuckling, Riddle threw his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. Then abruptly turned serious. "But you just try to insult my family, and you won't live for another minute to tell anyone about it," he hissed venomously.

"Okay," Harry simply nodded and finally got up from the floor where he had been sitting all this time. A little surprised to find out his shirt lying in the corner far from the bed as if thrown with some force — while he clearly remembered going to sleep with his shirt on — Harry picked it up, blinking at the only remaining button in disbelief, and stepped up to the wardrobe. He was not sure, that there should be any clothes in it left from the previous summer and, anyway, that was _Sirius'_ room at that time—

Slowly opening the door, he found the almost offending wardrobe absolutely empty and sighed with the obvious relief. He wasn't sure what he could have done if he found some of _Sirius_ ' clothes in here. Yes, he was still grieving, his heart's wounds hadn't closed yet. But one should move on, especially in such dire circumstances, as he found himself in. Battlefield was not the place to mourn your fallen. Firstly, it was necessary to save the living, and only after — to bury the dead.

Harry shook his head, banishing these thoughts. Now was not the time for brooding either. He had had a handful on his plate as it was, and now there was a special treat in the form of his nemesis' younger self, so Harry tried with all his might to wake up, shake himself from unnecessary thoughts and move on.

As he was not sure, where to look for a fresh clothes, all he could do was to call a house-elf. Except for Dobby, who was surely at Hogwarts right now, the only other elf Harry knew well was Kreacher. So he called Kreacher, asked for two sets of fresh clothes (for himself and for Riddle), and required to bring him the elf, who was responsible for kitchen, as Harry hadn't trusted Kreacher not to "accidentally" poison him and Riddle, just for good measure.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI

Several following days passed by rather peacefully and almost uneventfully, and Harry couldn't help it, but he felt his heart warming up towards snarky, but very inventive and surprisingly intelligent Slytherin. They still fought over even the trivial matters, such as Harry's supposed lack of taste in clothing or all Muggles being useful only as targets for practicing hexes and such, but all in all they tried to co-exist in a most normal way there could be, taking into account the circumstances given.

As for their magical connection, with it being already wonky and broken as it was, neither Tom (understandably) nor even Harry were ready to test its boundaries again, at least, not intentionally.

Accidents still happened, of course.

For example, Harry once tried to quickly go and grab the juice for them both from the kitchen, leaving Tom sitting on the stairs with a pile of books on his lap and immersed in yet another dusty tome. To Harry's excuse, his estimation of the distance was a bit off due to the lack of light in the corridor (as no one wanted to wake the portrait, of course).

Nevertheless, when Harry stepped into the kitchen, he heard lowly hissing behind him, interrupted by muffled intake of air. He turned to see Riddle trying to hold himself as if nothing was wrong, but failing, when trying to breathe some air through magically constricted throat. Harry rushed back immediately, lunging to hug the other boy, who, of course, was trying to dodge his nervously flailing hands. After several shaky intakes of air both boys have calmed down enough to return to whatever they were doing: Riddle scowling at his book and Harry trying to wish away his thirst, as he was waiting for someone to pass-by and help get the drinks for him and Riddle.

Another time it was Riddle who forgot about invisible restraints. On the very first day of Tom being here Dumbledore walked on them in the library and, like the meddling old coot he was, he has put froward the restrictions, after performing the spell, which was only slightly milder then the one being in place in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library. Tom was furious, but, for some reason unknown to Tom, Harry agreed with Dumbledore, giving reasonable explanation of this being the summer holidays and "why would you need books if not for assignments? It's not like you definitely going to return in time for the beginning of the school year, or is it? Give it a rest, Riddle!"

Tom responded with a nasty comment about Harry's scar: he implied, that Harry's empty head cracked from the echo in there. After this Tom slammed the door behind him and went to brood in the next available room.

Harry stormed into this room about a quarter of an hour later, fed up with the feeling of constant yanking of his hand on the invisible leash (or his own conscious nagging at him, maybe, Tom hadn't decided, which it could be, yet). Tom tried to appear calm and almost regal-like while standing on his knees in front of the door, trembling from pain and struggling to breathe.

Harry, growling through his teeth, enveloped him in the reluctant hug, long enough for his pain to recede and breath to go even again, after which he released Tom and showed something in his hands.

"Here, you can read this, I don't need it anyway!" Harry grumbled.

"What..?" Tom's voice still was a bit rasp. "What's it?" for once he chose to speak in shorter and less complex sentences, due to his condition.

"Someone gave it to me as present. I don't need it at the moment, you can read it." Harry said. "And don't you dare throw away or damage it, smart-ass, you get it?!"

Tom just nodded: he could totally understand and respect the wish to cherish one's valued possessions, what's with Tom himself being in possession of a rather small amount of items bearing any value for him whatsoever. If this book was good enough, he even could relieve Harry of the pressure of it being in his hands, and instead get it for himself, Tom thought. Of course, with this ludicrous spell on them both, not allowing to part from each other enough to truly admire or at least thoroughly hide anything, it was rather challenging task—to expand one's collection, but it should do for now, Tom decided.

Alas! The book happened to be pretty boring, as its subject was Quidditch. Tom never really cared for the sport enough to seek books on this matter. The blasted game' times clashed with Tom's reading habits, of course. He was not going to admit to being scared out of his mind at the mere thought of flying high up in the air with only a stick with a bush at its end to rely upon.

Tom still remembered his one and only practical lesson on Flying: he'd got on the broom alright, hovered for the couple of minutes above the ground, stepped down upon the whistle of the instructor and never again had he returned there. It was too unpredictable and unreliable to put his trust on the stupid wooden stick and to put his life on the line just for the dubious fun (and where was fun in falling to the ground from several hundred feet high?!). Later on Tom tried with all his might to avoid the matter: he'd trade small favours for yet another favours, and finally got the Flying Instructor to mark him based on theory only.

And now he was back to Quidditch, or rather to the book in his hands, "Quidditch through the Ages". Scowling he decided to give it a try. Surely, Harry didn't expect him to play this cursed game, as they were still practically locked up in the house, and it should be quite hard to fly among staircases, old furniture and morbid decorations lining up the walls of the house.

Next day Tom had found out just how hard flying in there was: Harry managed to get his hands on the broom (and, thanks Merlin, it was only one broom!). First two times Tom hadn't managed to catch up on foot with Harry, who was flying on his broom, on time, which led to him fuming in the corner silently after yet another time of the Spell going off and the following hugging session, while Harry tried to talk him into sharing yet another thing—the broom.

"No, no and no!" Tom violently shook his head in refusal. "It's too risky!"

"Please-please-please! Pretty please!" Harry tried to whine, but Tom was unmoved.

"Too many objects around," as was usual of late, Tom resolved to shorter and simpler sentences, while waiting to his throat to soothe a bit and the trembling of his limbs to recede.

"Don't worry, I'm good on the broom!"

Tom shook his head again.

"Come on!"

And next moment Harry grabbed him by the arm and forced him on the broom behind himself. "It'll be fun, you'll see!"

Then they proceeded to fly along the corridor, gradually going higher and closer to the ceiling.

Tom tried to hold onto the broom with both of his hands, but there was little space between their bodies to do it properly.

Harry laughed.

"Hold onto me!"

Tom cursed under his breath and reluctantly grabbed Harry's waist, as at that moment the broom abruptly turned left. Another yank of the handle and they were turning again, Tom swore loudly and clutched Harry tighter.

Harry just continued to laugh happily.

They circled the second floor corridor and hovered just above the staircase. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the ground so far below him.

The broom swayed in the air. And swayed once more. Enough so, that Tom felt himself sliding sideways and desperately tried to melt into Harry's form in front of him, all the while cursing, mixing Wizarding and Muggle metaphors.

Harry laughed madder and louder at some phrase or the other, speeding and turning the broom. They knocked some ugly vase on their way, bumped on the door frame, clashed with a portrait, loudly crashed another painting, causing it to fall off its place on the wall. Then Harry at last lowered the broom enough for Tom to slide from it, with him landing in the ungraceful heap on the floor, hugging the ground and still swearing — cursing Harry, his possible relatives and flying instructors, this hole of a house and Tom's own luck, which had brought him here.

Harry managed another circle under the high ceiling, before landing beside him, laughing manically.

"Hey, you okay? Is it the Spell again?" calming somewhat, Harry asked, a bit worried.

"Leave me alone!" Tom spat. "Never again—"

"Eh?"

"Never again I'm going on that menace of a broom of yours!" Tom breathed.

Harry, giggling, poked him in the ribs with the broom' handle.

"That was fun, admit it!"

"Get lost!"

"Err— You didn't mean it, do you? Or do you have a death wish?"

"That's you who has it!"

"Wha—?"

"Death wish! Flying inside! And that portrait of a woman—!" Tom, annoyed to no end and fed up with everything, abruptly jumped on his feet and stormed downstairs to the loudly shrieking portrait, brandished his wand with some nasty curse almost on his lips—

And Harry knocked him over, not bothering to use the stairs proper, choosing to dive down on his broom instead.

"Are you mad?" Harry barked, pinning Tom to the floor with his body and wrestling his wand out of his hand. "No magic!" he all but shrieked, deafening even the portrait above them, surprising it enough to successfully shut it off.

"Potter, get off me," Tom drawled, trying to throw the other teen off with no luck.

"You were warned, I think, of not using magic, while in here!"

"I am fed up with this ugly place, this disgusting woman and with not using magic!"

"You will get us both in trouble!"

"And I'm fed up with you, too!" Tom finally managed to throw Harry off, stood up, turned on the heels and stomped up the stairs.

"Argh—!" Harry quickly followed, not ready for "healing hugs" while they were arguing.

Yet another accident occurred shortly afterwards, and, again, it was Tom, who was to blame. He was bored out of his mind and was going through the books in small part of the library, which they were allowed to use. Harry was sitting in a chair beside the window, reading what looked like yet another useless textbook on Quidditch tactics. Tom, glancing over that corner suspiciously, took out his wand, discreetly hiding it up his sleeve, and pointed towards the far end of the bookshelf: he noticed some interesting old book there, but that shelf was out of the boundaries, which Dumbledore's set up earlier.

"No magic!" Harry all but barked from his corner. "Or I'll take your wand!"

Tom huffed annoyed, but put his wand away reluctantly, not ready for yet another pointless fight between himself and Harry after the recent confrontation. And who knows, the brat might just take him up on the broom again, if only to prevent him from doing anything outside the swearing and holding broom or Harry's scrawny form tightly, so he won't fall off.  
Returning to the shelves in front of him, Tom scanned the titles briefly, but none of them piqued his interest – he'd read most of these already, some of them even several times, either in his own time-frame or when being already here.

Still undecided, Tom went to the next line of shelves, but here, too, none of the books attracted his attention for more then half a minute necessary to read their titles. Tom went to the next row of bookshelves and began searching here, only to stumble in the middle of the row. It seemed, that was the boundary of the Spell, as he felt slight tugging in the direction to where Harry was. Ignoring the slowly building up pain, he stubbornly went further along the aisle, trying to find a good reading material.

Again these titles were mostly either old, or useless, but something caught his eye, at last. The book at the end of this row seemed as if it was pulled out recently and not placed back properly, the layer of dust there was almost absent.

Tom made another couple of steps forward, but was forced to grab the nearest shelf for support, as, finally, the Spell caught up with him proper, magic-infused pain shooting through his system abrupt enough, that his knees gave way under him. He took in a breath of air with some difficulty, as always refusing to acknowledge the need for help or to return back inside the boundary of the Spell. He even managed to get to the end of the shelf, but, when tried to reach for the book (it being on the shelf slightly above his height), the hand, with which he supported himself upright, slipped. He still tried to remain on his feet and get to the book, but fell only a moment later, with a loud crash bringing half the books on the shelf down with him and his temple colliding with some corner with so much force, that his vision gone black and he slipped into unconsciousness.

Tom came to his senses some time unbeknownst to him later to find himself in the bed, half-naked (with only his underpants on) and feeling someone's warmth beside him. Tom could make a good guess as to whom it might be. Harry. Of course, it would be Harry, as no-one else had the audacity to sleep naked under the same blanket as Tom "just for healing purposes", as Harry put it once.

His head pounded with dull ache, probably from his collision with the book-shelf, or from the lack of oxygen during the Spell in action. He brought up one of his hands to the wounded temple and felt something akin to bruise there, half-covered with the thick layer of bandages, which someone (probably, Harry again) had put around his injured head. Also he felt a stab of pain in his other hand, the one, with which he tried to grab the blasted book. Raising this hand had proved rather difficult, as the wrist was heavily (and not very accurately) bandaged with some clean cloth, layer upon layer of which made it look like there was a small ball underneath. He snorted and looked sideways at the sleeping form near him. Harry stirred in his sleep and whimpered lowly, probably seeing another one of his nightmares. Tom frowned at that. Not that he cared, but -

Not really understanding his own reasoning, Tom hummed quiet melody, calming his neighbour. Harry mumbled something illegible, but clearly his sleep became more peaceful after this.

Still frowning, Tom left the bed in favour of his favourite spot near the window, looking around on his way towards it in search for his clothes. Strangely enough, he could not see either of their robes. And, if left unattended, Harry had the tendency to create a makeshift carpet out of his discarded clothes, evenly covering all the floor in their room with them. Again snorting, Tom turned his attention towards the landscape behind the window, ignoring the slight chill along his spine. He'd been used to the cold long, before Harry has got it to his head, that they need as much skin to skin contact as possible, while reversing the effects of the Spell by the means of long hug-sessions or by sleeping naked under the same blanket. They had already had this conversation at least three times, though Tom still had his hopes. One way or the other he would convince Harry that all of this wasn't necessary. Or, probably, Dumbledore would, at last, release them from the humiliation of being bonded to each other.

Although, Tom was curious as to where his clothes could have vanished and, more importantly, exactly how that happened, as Harry was so insistent on not doing any magic. Never mind the quite disturbing thought (or rather image in his mind-eye) of Harry carefully stripping Tom's helpless and unconscious form (and why would he need that, exactly?) and appraising his body, while Tom was out cold.

He shivered at the alarming thought, scowling and trying to wish the image away from his mind, before it started haunting him proper.

"Hey, you alright?" came the mumbled call from the bed, yanking him to reality.

Tom turned around abruptly.

"Mind explaining, what possessed you to vanish my clothes?" Tom demanded harshly, choosing to ignore for the moment the awkwardness of being so exposed under other's intent (worried?) stare, as well as small part of his consciousness reminding him about carefully put bandages and "healing skin-ship" session, despite Harry himself being quite disturbed by his (or male in general) touches.

"I asked a house-elf to wash them, while we're sleeping," Harry replied calmly, shrugging. "It's not like you need them under blanket, no?"

Tom scowled.

"Nobody asked - "

"Look, if you have a death wish still, it's your problem, not mine! You crashed half the library, spilling blood everywhere! - How's your head, by the way? - So you should at least be thankful, that I am not forcing you to wash your bloody rags by hand! - How's it feeling, eh? - If you don't have the decency to be thankful for the help, just shut up and come to bed! - It's freezing, is it not?"

"Err – You do realise, you're rambling, Harry?" Tom felt his head spinning, while he tried to catch at least half of Harry's heated speech. "And it's seems there are two Harrys speaking," he snorted, although just a second earlier he was ready to punch the brat for stealing his – only! - clothes.

For a moment there, he really felt, like there were two persons speaking, with Harry's emotions juggling between annoyance at one second and compassion at another, and all these - in one flow of breath, almost in one long word.

Harry blinked owlishly, abruptly cutting off his ranting.

"Wha - "

A house-elf chose that moment to pop in with two piles of their clothing in his hands. He dropped them, snarling nastily, and was gone without a word, only sending another grimly glare to Harry.

That successfully interrupted any potential fight, as Tom quickly grabbed his things and began putting them on, clumsily moving his injured hand, but, stubborn as always in his refusal to ask for help. Harry silently stood up and, too, started on his clothes. When Tom got to the task of tying the shoelaces, muttering curses under his breath, as his injured hand did not want to work properly, the laces slipping from his cramped fingers, and his head began to spin from him leaning too far down, Harry (already finished, as both his hands and his head were fine and healthy) still silently get on a knee and, batting away Tom's hands, began tying the laces for him. This brought on even more curses from the latter, though after short struggle he allowed the help.

"Breakfast?" Harry offered peacefully, standing up. Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the question and just silently followed Harry out of the room, inwardly cringing from his own obedience.


End file.
